Tuesday, July 31, 2007

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #91? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

Saturday, July 28, 2007

Hi. This is a little weird. I knew a girl with your name at Atlantic University from 1996 to 1998. I moved to Portland in July of that year and we talked maybe once or twice since, but I’m curious and I’m trying to find her. I ran across your site and saw your name and thought maybe. If you remember me, please reply to this email.

Thanks for your time,

Paul Cecchini

To: youareell@bendertheisp.com

From: moodyjudythefoodie@yahoo.com

Paul!

Paul?

Paul!

aol chat:

moodyjudythefoodie

Judy

For two days, I waited to hear from Paul, nervously activating my iChat, a little red bubble in the upper right hand corner of my screen, waiting to drag its tail into all kinds of trouble. And there he was on Wednesday night, while I was answering emails. He popped up, well, yeah, he popped up right there with a little bwooop sound.

P-Judy!

I smiled and blushed, my fingers shaking over the keyboard.

J-Paul!

P-Judy!

J-Paul!

P-What the fuck is going on with you?

I was unsure of how to take this one, then remembered that Paul’s mouth contained a billowing blue cloud of smoking profanity. This was him just talking. I thought about being vague about my life, letting him wrench details from me question after question, but I realized I was impatient, wanted to skip to the good stuff right away. I’d wanted to talk to him for years.

P-Occupation: Arranging religious pamphlets alphabetically, throwing them out, gathering more pamphlets. To make money, I work as an architect. But you know that, silly.People in the home whose various moods I must administer: One fully grown adult named Bea. Tad, five years old. Gordon, three.Living in Portland (Oregon, you remember) in a house of my competitor’s design.Why? I wanted to stop well short of the ocean. Fucking hate fish.

The night I met Paul, he was in a crisis at a bar. He’d just found out that his girlfriend was cheating on him. He confessed this to me in the line for the men’s room, across from the line for the women’s.

“Would you do something for me when you’re done in there?” he asked, nodding at the women’s room door.

“What?”

“I fucking need a hickey. A big fucking hickey like Jennifer Lopez thought I was a straw or something.”

“What, like on your neck, right?”

He sighed and grinned. “Yeah, on my neck.”

Under a fluorescent lamp buzzing over a pay phone at the back of the bar, I sucked on Paul’s neck for all it was worth, rubbing the bend of skin with my tongue. It took a few minutes, this being the first task set by a new friend, I wanted it to be perfect. We were silent, still, listening to Lovefool by The Cardigans play on the jukebox. My lips tingled when I was done.

J-Did you miss me?

P-Of course. Did you miss me?

J-Aw. Totally. I like your avatar thingy.

P-I like yours. It looks just like my computer.

J-You’ve got a MacBook?

P-Just got it last week.

P-Uh oh.

P-I’m about to press that camera button.

P-I’m going to press it.

J-Oh shit. Alright. I’ll press mine too.

P-Ready? Go.

I pressed the camera button and Paul appeared before me.

“Can you see me?” he asked.

“Oh my God.”

“I guess so. I can see you. You look great! You look better than you did in school!”

“You look exactly the same,” I said.

And he did. He picked up his computer and did a kind of head-to-toe of himself. I did the same when he was done.

The last time I saw Paul, he was in my dorm room. He was about to move to Portland and asked me if he should bring his girlfriend. I told him he should. Then he complained about not getting laid enough.

“There’s always some reason that she won’t. And then I’m stuck there with this girl that I can’t touch and I can’t touch another girl because I’ve got her. And I can’t touch myself ‘cause she’s there. And then, you know what I’m thinking about? I’m thinking about calling you.”

I blushed, sitting cross-legged on my bed. We never talked about it. He would ask for it, I’d do it, and we just went on like it never happened. He sat down on the opposite side of the bed, his back against the wall.

“Would you do one more? I don’t think I can afford to call you all the time. Just one last one for the road?”

“Just call me when you get back.”

“Why not do it now?”

“Like right here? Isn’t that going to be kind of boring for you?”

“I was thinking I would… right here. You could finally see it.”

He didn’t look at me. My heart beat like a box full of bricks dropping on the floor. Whump. Whump. Whump.

“Okay,” I said. “Um, girl?”

“Gillian Anderson.”

“Place?”

“Haven’t done a restaurant in a while.”

“Okay,” I start. “You’re at an expensive restaurant and you’re eating a New York strip with garlic mashed potatoes. You’re sitting next to Gillian Anderson. She puts her knife and fork down and takes a pat of butter in her hands. She warms it up between her palms and you know what to do. You unzip your pants and pull it out.”

I watched Paul unzip his pants and pull it out. He looked around the dorm room and took a bottle of lotion from my desk. He dropped his pants completely and sat back down on the bed. He pulled his shirt up to his armpits so I could see and squirted some of the lotion into his right hand.

“She reaches under the tablecloth and wraps her hand around it. Some of the butter hasn’t melted yet and it feels cold. You stare at your fork and concentrate.”

Paul looked good these days. He seemed fit, a little paunch, but not too much. He moved with more confidence, taking the computer around his house to give me a tour. He put it down and I watched him pour himself a Coke in his kitchen. He didn’t have the lope in his walk like he used to.

“Where’s Bea?” I asked him. “I haven’t seen her since like your first date.”

“She and the kids are visiting her mom. Her mom spoils the absolute shit out of them and we’ve gotta break them in again whenever they come back. “

“I guess that’s what grandmothers are for, right?”

There was a long pause and he picked up the computer again, his face, and then a turn and a walk until we were back in his office. He set it down, sat and stared at me for a while.

“Where’s your guy? Frank, right?”

“He works nights.”

“Factory?”

“Sommelier.”

“Oh. That’s gotta be hard.”

“Not really. We’re very different people and it’s better that we don’t see too much of each other.”

“Now I’m jealous.”

“Don’t be.”

“Things not so good?” he asked.

“Not really. You?”

“Same as they were at Atlantic.”

“Sorry.”

“Ah. You get what you marry, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You getting laid any more than you were?”

“Nope.”

“Cheating?”

“Nope.”

“Good for you.”

“I guess. I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” I said, and this time he could see me smile. He smiled back.

“You had your teeth capped, huh?”

“Had to,” he said. “Dentist’s orders.”

He mussed his hair and sat back, regarding my face.

“Tell me a story,” he said, and I waited for him to say he was kidding.

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Bea. Frank.”

“It’s not cheating. No one’s touching anyone.”

“No!”

“How ‘bout I tell one?”

“Paul….”

“Judy….”

“Place?” I said nothing and frowned at him. “Pl-aaace.” His hands patted his desk. “Judy, when I would call you in college, would you say that we were having sex?”

I slid the laptop forward on my bed, got up, my heart pounding like it was in the dorm room. Whump. Whump. Whump. My pants and underwear, as though my hands were not under my control, were dropped to the floor. I angled the laptop screen so he could see. His face went a little slack. I saw his arm go down to a drawer in his desk. He got a bottle of lube and set it out.

He continued. “He starts to fuck you with his fingers. It feels good. It feels really good to you. You want the real thing and you start to beg for it.” He took his shirt off, then stood and took his jeans off, still talking. “You say ‘Fuck me. Fuck me with that big cock.’” He stood in his underwear for a moment, an undeniable bulge in there, then pulled those too off. His cock was hard, straight, bouncing out of the underwear.

“I forgot how hairy you are,” I said.

“Shh. He asks you to say it again. You do. ‘Fuck me. Please.’”

His voice was a little comical, trying to imitate me. I couldn’t laugh because he’d see me. I covered my mouth instead. He backed his chair far enough from the desk so I could see all of him. “Your pussy is wet.” He snapped open the bottle of lube and poured some down over it. He rubbed it in with a twist and began to work it. My smile turned to hot shock under my palm. I seemed to stop breathing. “Is your pussy wet, Judy?”

“Probably.”

“Check.”

My fingers slipped between my pussy lips, his face changing, a smirk and a gasp.

“I’m wet. This is wrong.” But my finger took some of the wet and moved up.

“There you go,” he said. “I’m not very good at this. Why don’t you take over?”

“You press her face down on the dining room table and smack her ass a few times. The pink drives up on both cheeks. She tries to hide the pain in her face, but she can’t. ‘Please, Paul,’ she says. ‘That hurts.’” My fingers started to rub furiously, as if doing this fast would make it less wrong. I found a spot that made my thighs tremble. He noticed. “You finally give in, press your cock down and slide in. Her pussy grabs you tight and you’re not sure how you’re going to hold out. You start to fuck her, slow so you can feel it all, but she begs you to go harder now.”

He stopped for a moment and held his cock out for me to see. It was long and thick, just as I remembered it. I remembered it all the time, had memorized that night in my dorm room like I filmed it.

He brought it back into his fist and started to beat it hard, the sound of flapping skin making it to the tiny microphone in his computer. “You’re fucking her madly now, and she calls out to you. She says ‘Paul! Paul, that’s so good! Fuck me harder, Paul! Fuck harder!’ And you look down at her face and see it all scrunched up and red and you do. You go harder.” It was getting harder to talk now. To concentrate on the words. I never did this when he’d call me before. I waited until we hung up.

“Mmm. And your… your body just fills… up with… sex. And you slap her ass one more time for it. One more time… and she… cringes. You can feel her tighter on your cock. Her teeth are gritting. “And you slow down and grind into me. You… grind me and I can feel you so deep.”

I’d done it. We both noticed the switch to first person. We both gasped. I was about to come, but he got there first.

“Judy, fuck, fuck, Judy.” He stood up and came, shooting out onto the camera. “Fuck!”

“Paul! Jesus Christ, Paul!” His thumb wiped the come off as I came in wave after wave, thrown all over the bed and shaking the computer. I lay silently for a few moments before I had the strength to sit up. I knew I was blushing. I knew he wouldn’t be.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Hi. I cheated a bit here and deleted the first two parts to this entry. They are now three parts in one long, long story. Read it anyway. I really did write it because I thought you might like to read it, you wonderful, wonderful people.

Sun-hee is shading her eyes from the raindrops, the slow, fat kind that wash across your face and stay there. Simon looks up too, trying to make out what it is that she’s looking for. There is only one picture in his mind, of a stuffed and top-heavy turkey-like bird that he’d seen in The Natural History Museum in London. The scientists, who clearly were faking their annoyance, opened an oversized drawer and pulled it out in latex gloves, placed it on an examining tray and stepped back. The bird rolled and stopped, its jazz-hands legs jutting rigidly from its body. He looked at its face first, the black glass eyes, the fold on its head like rubber, protecting the thing, he assumed, from the rain. He stared at its curved beak, reaching out to touch, but reminded himself that he couldn’t. He pantomimed the shape instead.

“Pay good mind to its markings,” Cornelius said. “You won’t see its face at all.”

Simon did his best and looked for distinctiveness in the bird, a cluster of dark brown mottles before the tailfeathers, a little bit of shine near the front of the wing, but he could see nothing that would distinguish it from so much as a very large sparrow, and resigned himself to the guidance of his hosts with a nod.

Sun-hee has a worried look on her face, making the rainwater look like tears on her cheeks. Simon suddenly feels protective of her, as if they’re real. “Did you hear it, Cornelius?” she asks.

“I thought I had,” Cornelius says, and sighs.

Love Lost Between the Russet Wadbeaks by Simon Evans

There is, in the political miasma and clashing interests that come with the protection of endangered species, a quiet heartbreak to be found in the small, rainforested island nation of San Jacinto. A male and a female, once simply distanced from one another, now can’t stand to be anywhere near each other. The change has come suddenly. The formerly happy, if cold, couple now calls out to each other but once a year, if they do at all. They are met with silence. They are dying out, and they don’t seem to mind.

They are the Russet Wadbeaks (Caro Cucullati), birds once so common that the first Spanish settlers simply refused to stay on the island for the noise. The legendary lullaby, No Grita began here and was carried away by galleon within two months, its soothing effect more potent on decidedly quieter bambinos of The New World.

Oh, blessed Virgin MotherPlease bestow your gentleWhisper to the shrieking birdsMake their screams but songsFor you shall be honored withA choir of angels and notThe crash of iron and Scraping chains

(Transl. Courtesy Hannah Alexander)

Hannah and Cornelius join Sun-hee in inexplicable sky-staring. Simon looks up dutifully, but sees nothing but dive-bombing drops of water and a tall ceiling of dark green. Finally, his eyes soaked dry from the wet, he faces forward, squeezing the false tears from his eyelids with his thumbs. When they open again, his three companions have started along without him. He lifts boots from muck and catches up slowly.

Hannah, Cornelius and Sun-hee have been on the hunt for the Russet Wadbeak for two years. They talk little, move in a swarm pattern, turning at the same time and at the same pace like a school of fish. Their gestures are a secret twin language to Simon, a flat hand on Cornelius’ part curved down and flattened again, echoed by the women. Though there has been no agreement that Simon can’t speak, he assumes by the gestures that it’s frowned upon, and simply repeats his questions in his head, saved for later when camp is made and notes can be attached to dry paper.

Theories abound as to the sudden divorce, though there are simply not enough scientists to investigate. Cornelius Van Werckhoven of the Antwerp Society for Research and Progress thinks vaguely that it might be that road.

“It’s only the time frame,” he says. “There was no road and there were Wadbeaks. Then there was road and there were none.” When pressed, he confesses in sticky consonants that he’s not sure why. “Maybe it’s the line,” he says. “If you draw a chalk line front of an ant, it will not cross. Maybe this is a border and the birds stay on their side of the box. We cannot say for sure. Who knows how many couples were severed by it?”

When Van Werckhoven speaks of couples, he means it. The Wadbeaks mate for life after a brief but promiscuous period in youth. Once a mate is chosen, copulation ensues for about seven scattered weeks in the year.

This is related to me in the present tense, though Van Werckhoven winces as he speaks. No one wants to pronounce the dead until the pulse hasn’t been heard from in decades.

Sun-hee’s ass scoots across the tarp like a hot sled across ice. Her shorts are made of much the same material, though the wet is insidious enough to trickle inside all the same. She’s eating canned salmon, the pink striking in the blue background of the tarp. An arrhythmic pup pup PUP pup PUP pup pup pup of the rain hitting the canopy above her head lends an agitated tone to their conversation. “I think it’s the disruption, not the physical road, that’s gotten to them,” she says.

“How do you mean?” Simon asks.

“Well,” she says, stabbing a large wedge of salmon with her fork, “with a road, there's construction, rumbling trucks and whining backhoes.” Her voice, a hard-won Irish accent, slows and warbles in strange parts of sentences. Simon feels himself slightly hypnotized by it. “It’s not conducive to sex, is it? They were used to being the loudest things around.”

“When the Wadbeaks mated,” Hannah says, by way of polite explanation, “mudslides took out whole settlements. The noise was said to be deafening, especially out here where everything else is so cowingly silent.”

Cowing silence hits the tarps as the rain stops, the slaps of the remaining drops trivial. Sun-hee’s face turns down and so, in turn, does Simon’s.

The night before, Simon lost a battle against reason and had to get up in the dark to take a piss. Swearing under his breath, he put wet socks on and soaked boots, slid out of the hammock and walked, flashlight at the ground lest he wake his neighbors, to something that was not green and leafy. A whimper touched his ear and he almost leapt. Another came soonafter, but this was clearer, the sound of a woman. Then the sound of a man.

Simon smiled and peed guiltily. Cornelius and Hannah were married, after all. He listened peacefully for a few moments until the sounds peaked and ebbed away. A little naughty reward for his troubles, he thought. On the way back to his hammock, he veered a little and heard more sounds, these just breaths, really. He put a few fingers on the front of his flashlight to dim it and slowly lifted it in the direction of the sound. Sun-hee’s hammock appeared at the top of the grey circle, her eyes closed and bike shorts down, fingers deep in the black fur of her pussy, neck bent in ecstasy. Her mouth burned into his eyes, showed through the mosquito netting, open and dark behind her lips. He slowly lowered the flashlight again and found his hammock, a droning erection in his own bike shorts. He hadn’t really noticed Sun-hee’s lips before.

The last that time the mating cries of the Russet Wadbeaks, described variously as “Plane crashing into steel mill” and “The screech of God’s chalk on the devil’s blackboard” was heard in the jungle canopy of San Jacinto was 1974. They have a life span of about forty years.

Simon, catching himself staring at Sun-hee’s neck as another stop is made, a hawk-gawk, he’s come to call them, begins to pity himself. He longs for a shower, a real one, where the water is clean and warm and you can dry off afterward. Dry skin is a wet dream. Dry, warm sheets. Television. Take-out food. He feels that putting any kind of moves on Sun-hee would be a train wreck. In this state, even flirtation would be interpreted as creepy, some sweaty, mosquito-bitten, grunting, would-be professional colleague making dirty jokes about what the head and beak of the bird looked like to him with a big smile. Yuck. Sun-hee and him should have met in a hotel bar near the Mayan ruins in Guatemala. He could buy her a drink and engage her friend in conversation until she too was compelled to join. But San Jacinto is no place to pick up a girl.

The Russet Wadbeak is, or was, at once normal and silly looking. There is nothing particularly dignified in the wad of flesh that curves around the eyes, almost covering its nose. It is, by all reports, not a particularly graceful flyer. It is said rather to flop from tree to tree, its stunted wings flapping desperately at the air. On the ground, they are said to be jumpy, to lift each clawed foot repeatedly in seeming disgust with the earth.

One wonders what Cornelius Van Werckhoven, Hannah Alexander and Sun-hee Shaolan see in this bird, what makes them give up summer vacations and respectable credit ratings to ensure the survival of an obscure noisemaker thousands of miles away from home. The Wadbeak has not controlled the spread of some insect-borne disease. It feeds mostly on larger, harmless insects a few times a day. It is not the sole source of food for some more beautiful species, an exotic leopard or noble eagle. In fact its only predator was man, who never, before the road, had to tolerate them long enough to make a dent in the population. The Wadbeak, it seems, lives, or lived, to make a ruckus and to make more Wadbeaks.

Cornelius has stepped on a sharp branch which managed to puncture a hole in his shoe and subsequently his skin. It stopped just short of punching through to the other side. He can move his toes and ankle without trouble, but the wound must be monitored for infection. It must be lifted, clean and dry for a few days to seal up again. Hannah stays with him as nurse, promising to switch with Sun-hee tomorrow. Sun-hee and Simon have headed out, GPS in hand, unbearable tracts of green and black ahead. Sun-hee’s hair is wrapped tightly, but long tresses, weighted with water, escape and dangle from her head. Others cling to her neck and shoulders, shiny clumps that mimic the curves below.

“What got you started in all this?” Simon asks, after the hawk-gawk is over.

“Cornelius. Can I tell you something off-the-record? I mean, not that it’s a big deal, but it’s not really pertinent to your story, alright?”

“Of course.”

“Cornelius and I were engaged to be married at one time. He got me into the Wadbeaks.” She isn’t looking at Simon as she talks. He can’t gauge her tension.

“What happened?”

“Hannah.”

“Wow.”

“It was a long time ago. We’re completely different people now, all three of us. But we still share this thing. These ridiculous birds!”

Sun-hee stops abruptly and turns toward Simon again, face in the air. Simon expects that at one time, the look in her eyes was hopeful, that Sun-hee thought all she would have to do is find one, but her look now is simply maintenance. She probably doesn’t know she’s doing it. Probably does it at home too for a few weeks, having dreamt up a scheme that the birds had simply wanted to save her the plane fare. Her face drops and she looks Simon in the eyes as she returns to him. She blinks and smiles. He doesn’t.

“Well, I don’t want to insult your passion, but I must ask…. These birds are ridiculous. Why?”

“Why do we do it, you mean?”

“Yes,” says Simon.

“I think the absurdity is a great big part of it,” she says. “You know how people will seek out little-known artists or bands to love? The Wadbeak is like that. Ours.”

“How do you and Hannah get along so well?”

“We just do. It’s the only way.”

Simon has about ten more questions stacked up in his mental jukebox to play, but he can’t afford to ask them. He leaves Sun-hee to her ritual, enjoys it, watching her conquer the rainforest bit by bit, plugging notes into her GPS, swatting poisonous-looking ants off of oversized leaves. She stops and examines the bark on a tree.

“This could be one of their marks,” she says, poking and scratching it with trimmed fingernails. “But if it is, it’s very old.” She sighs and walks on.

“How do they leave marks?”

“They stand on the side of trees and work the bark in their talons. No one had time to figure out why. Can you imagine? A bird that size on the side of a tree?”

“No.”

“I’m glad you’re not pressing me for details on Hannah and Cornelius. We didn’t want you to come, really, but we did it for the Wadbeaks. It hasn’t been an easy week for us.”

“I haven’t been imposing, have I?”

“No. It’s nothing that you’re doing. We’re just used to being kind of our own people.”

Another hawk-gawk and Sun-hee’s hand holds a vine to keep steady. He stares at her hands, their compact dexterity, the way the wet smoothes them, the bones inside strong and nimble.

“Do you have someone at home?” Simon asks.

“Not really.”

Simon sees his hand reach out to Sun-hee’s and is unable to stop it. Simon sees his fingers stroke at the edges of hers and is mortified.

The Russet Wadbeak has many bad habits, besides the wailing and the tree kneading. The Russet Wadbeak will only relieve itself in one place, and stepping in the pile will end the life of your shoes. It will not only eat at the rubber and leather, but should some small part of the droppings make contact with your skin, your foot will develop an insatiable rash. There have been known cases of people scratching the soles off of their feet to relieve it. The Russet Wadbeak loves to gnaw at mosquito nettings and will use the bits it can remove in its nest. The Russet Wadbeak loves television antennas too, and will bend and pull at them until they are loose. It will build nests in the driver’s seats of open cars. It will steal crops if they’re available. It is in constant, open revolt to humanity, with a bit of Bugs Bunny in its veins.

Until 1974, humanity had been completely outnumbered and outfoxed. The majority of the island nation is uninhabited, the road only used by the San Jacinto military base, one used primarily by the Columbians. San Jacinto has never had a population of more than six hundred people. It, therefore, lends a charming explorer fantasy to the visitor, the feeling that he or she is truly seeing something that has been unexplored, or at least unseen by any of your former high school classmates. One can’t look at a berry on a vine and not wonder if it’s the first one ever seen. The entire island seems fragile and shy. Even touching it will change it, taint it. You walk quietly and slowly, until the mud tries to take your boots off, and then you realize that if you’re the enemy, you’d better start acting like it.

To Simon’s confusion, his fingers are accepted and Sun-hee spreads hers. Her face, the simple and flawless skin, the long lashes and the lips he had watched so dearly, turn to him. Rain starts with a wimpy thunderclap and their faces soak quickly with water. He kisses her anyway, though he’s not sure that she wants it, and tastes the slightly salinated water on her, feels it gather in parts of his mouth. He is constantly swallowing, but holds her close, the sticky cotton of his shirt clinging back and forth between them. His hand trails up her ribcage, shaking over the dips and bumps, until her left breast, braless, is tucked between forefinger and thumb.

“I can’t let you do that,” she says, shaking her head out of the kiss.

“Why?” he asks. The warmth of her body is the only warmth that has cancelled out the soaking clothes, the only warmth he’s felt in over a week.

“Just. There’s a reason, right? And maybe it’s okay, but right now it’s not.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know. But it’s still true. I want you to. Believe me, I want you to touch me.”

His face descends to her neck and he digs his nose into it for a few moments, wondering if there is any part of her that still contains its own smell in all the constant rinsing. He puts his hand on her inner thigh. She holds his wrist to keep it from moving, either closer or away.

A Russet Wadbeak appears and lands on a branch about twenty feet above Simon’s hammock. Simon feels like he should say something to the others, but his eyes have been so starved of this sight that he takes it in, slowly, examines its flocks of spots on the back just before the tail, the shine of the front wing.

“Why won’t you look at my face?” it asks.

“I was told not to,” says Simon apologetically. He still can’t look, examines its talons instead, a piece of mosquito netting grinding into the tree under them. There is a knot in the bark under the netting. It looks like the oblong of an open mouth.

“You said you wanted to see my face,” it says. It has an Irish accent.

“I do.”

“So, look at it.”

“I can’t.”

The talons turn into Sun-hee’s hand on the branch, the mouth disappearing.

“What are you hiding?” Simon asks.

The bird does not respond. Instead, it flies down to him. It lands and scurries under his hammock.

“I can’t look at you there,” he says.

“What do you want from me?” the bird asks, louder, as if it’s on his chest.

Simon can’t answer. His body is overwhelmed by an intense, erotic, steam fog.

“What do you want from me?” the bird asks again, this voice completely familiar and right into his earlobe. He feels a tightening, fiery crash in his cock, his voice, suddenly an unbearable screech, howls across the forest.

His eyes open and there is no bird. There was no bird. He lays and gasps for a few moments. The sky is much darker than it was in the dream. The sun is only a lavender hint on the periphery. He puts his hand in his shorts and finds confirmation. He clutches at the parts of the dream that he needs the most, the sight of the bird, the orgasm, the voice, but they slip away in fat raindrops. He is left with a vague happiness and gets up to find a good leaf to wipe himself with. Found and wiped, invigorated, he dresses completely and takes a walk around the campsite to see if anyone else is up. The tarp covering the hanging food is unattended. Sun-hee’s hammock is empty. He walks on, toward where Cornelius and Hannah sleep.

There in their hammock, under the intact mosquito netting, is the mouth of Sun-hee. She lies on her side. Curious, Simon steps forward a little. He sees that her right knee is up, that she’s cooing. That she’s naked. A female hand grasps her right breast. A male one holds her pelvis. Simon notices another set of legs just behind her, thrusting, hairy, and sees an unmistakable set of testicles in movement. Simon is frozen, finding his eyes back at her lips. They are eclipsed by Hannah, naked, but for a sturdy set of boots in the mud. Hannah lifts the mosquito netting and sweeps her hand across Sun-hee’s abdomen before slipping her ring finger between Sun-hee’s pussy lips.

So why the ambivalence? Why can’t the Wadbeaks seem to romance each other anymore? It’s hard not to project human characteristics on a bird with so much personality. It’s hard not to think of Wadbeaks in a fight over the cleanliness of their nests, finally degrading into a volley of excrement projectiles into each other’s camps. It’s hard not to think of the Wadbeaks growing apart, one just not as into the scratching of trees, rather preferring increasingly artistic raids into ships’ cargo, the two of them finding nothing to squawk about anymore, politely ignoring the calls when they do come.

Then, recalling ourselves from our anthropomorphic musings, we find that the birds are as mysterious as they are galling. They are as unknowable as boll weevils and deep-ocean octopi. They are nothing but nerve endings and instincts, complex, but just that. What keeps these animals apart from each other could be as simple as a chemical coating found on newer television antennas or as philosophically knotted as the universe simply not needing them anymore.

Simon and Hannah leave camp after a breakfast of rice and chopped nuts. Hannah is silent for the first hour, and though the journalist in Simon’s brain frantically and angrily attempts to conjure Serious Inquiry into the matter of the Wadbeaks, he finds himself impossible to rope in. His mind is sickness and mad envy, and this, too, incites more of the same through its very existence. He doesn’t give a fuck about the damn birds anymore, would like to wait, swinging in his hammock, for his scheduled pickup by the Columbian navy at the coast and his eventual self-righteous piece, lambasting the greens for their wasteful obsession with minutiae. This possibility opens him up, and he starts a sudden, uncalled-for, loud conversation with Hannah.

“Don’t you have bills to pay?” he asks. He would cross his arms if he didn’t need to clutch at vines when he slipped.

“What do you mean?” Hannah asks, as if it’s never occurred to her that there is such a thing as money.

“Isn’t all of this a little bit expensive for you?”

“We save all year,” she says, unaffronted.

“Don’t you think the money would be better spent on a better cause, then?”

There is a pause as Hannah negotiates a slick dip in the mud after a fallen tree. “Like what?”

“Think of all the species that mean something that are dying out!”

“Who’s to decide—“

“Who’s to decide which are worthy and which are not in this precious ecosystem?” Simon finishes.

“Yes!”

Hannah turns to Simon and looks at him for what, he realizes, is the first time since they met. He expected some hippy sentence about the beauty of it all in some sentence beginning with “Dude…” and ending with “man!” He is met with pointed furiosity under previously heavy, dozy eyes.

“Who the fuck are we to decide? What the hell do we know? We don’t know what we’re doing! We just learned how to hit each other in the head with heavy stones and now we think we’re omfuckingnipotent. Fuck that. These birds may be strange, but at least they’ve got fucking manners!”

Simon, still full of green angst, stares at Hannah until she gives up on his hope to defend himself and turns around carefully before starting off again. He sits through two more hawk-gawks with a perfunctory scan of the canopy before he says “Sorry, I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”

“No, you’re not. You’re mad that you’re not playing with Sun-hee. And that’s fine. That’s a perfectly natural reaction.”

This jerks Simon right back into indignation, and he’s silent for the rest of the morning.

Let’s assume that we won’t find out enough about this particular bag of circumstance and DNA to save it before its almost certain demise. Let’s assume that the Russet Wadbeak has gone extinct and the planet, aside from three concerned parties, goes on pretty much as it had before. Is there anything like a lesson here? Can we contemplate, taking advantage of the measurably quieter atmosphere, the larger worth of these top-heavy, feathery, sexually frigid animals? What did they mean, and what does their absence mean to us?

I think, anthropomorphism aside, the lesson learned is another in the critical and yet widely unresearched field of sexual reproduction, the last and most complicated need, the most basic, the first and most important to sustain life, and we know almost nothing about it. Our own adult lives are aswim with the sometimes conflicting orders of our genitals and our hearts. How much of it is pure pheromone and how much the amount of time that your mother held you as a child? What do we look for and what does it have to do with the emotional replacement of a loved one, or the reenactment of a painful memory? Which sexual fantasy will produce the quickest erection, and do you think of smell or touch or taste? Perhaps you enjoy the mystery, think that it is the last thing we need to codify.

The Russet Wadbeak points us in the direction of research.

Back at camp, Sun-hee sits on the edge of Cornelius’s hammock and swings him a little bit faster than he should be swung. He has a plastic bag on his chest full of broad leaves. He hits Sun-hee’s back with them to make her stop, laughing. Hannah kisses Cornelius sincerely, giving Sun-hee’s hand a squeeze, before pulling back and asking about his foot.

“Oh! The swelling is gone! Look!”

She does, smiles and pats his knee. “What’s that you got there?” she asks.

“A little bit of medicinal aflojar,” he answers, snickering.

“We have a guest,” Hannah says, reproachingly.

“We have a guest who will never get this kind of hospitality again,” Sun-hee says.

Hannah whispers something in Sun-hee’s ear.

“Come along, Hannah,” Sun-hee says. “We’ve been on our best behavior all week.”

Hannah takes a look at me, her thin legs twisted around each other, then untwists them and says, “Alright, hand me one.”

Simon doesn’t need to consider it. He mud-steps over to the hammock and takes a leaf. He tears it into strips as Hannah does and throws it into his mouth to chew. The effect is slow, and takes an hour to kick in. At first he’s convinced that he’s not doing it right, but when it hits, the melting of concern that you get with pot combined with the sharp-edged energy of caffeine, he grins as wide as the other three. They smile warmly at each other for what could be ten minutes or could be thirty seconds when Simon feels compelled to pipe up.

“I saw you this morning,” he says, spitting a leaf clipping into the mud.

The other three look surprised, but pleasantly so. They would be pleasantly surprised by a fifteen-foot snake right now.

“What?” Sun-hee says, giggling.

“In the hammock?” Hannah finishes.

“Yes.” Simon covers his mouth when he talks this time.

“Doing—“ Cornelius starts.

“That, yeah.”

“Guess we haven’t been good all week, then, sweetie,” Cornelius says to Hannah.

Hannah is laughing uncontrollably behind her palm. Her breasts shake with it.

Simon is laughing too, tears in his eyes. “And then!” he manages to get out. “And then! Then I high-tailed it! Right back to! My hammock! And I just got so! So pissed off!”

Sun-hee’s mouth is wide open, laughing loud enough to echo in the canopy.

“Because!” Simon continues. “I wanna fuck Sun-hee so bad! Hey! Hey!”

The other three control their laughter, leaning over the back of their hands for the next punchline. “I had a dream that she was a Wadbeak!” They have a controlled burst of hilarity and return just in time. “And I came in my shorts!”

AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HUH. AHHH ha ha ha HAH HAH. HA. HA. HAAAAAAA!

“I’m dying!” Hannah says, leaning over her knees, her chest spasming.

“I know!” says Simon, clutching at his stomach.

Sun-hee walks surprisingly well to Simon, who sits cross-legged on a stretch of tarp, leans over and kisses him. Joy wells up in his face and he pulls her down. She sits, also cross-legged, beside him and looks up at Cornelius and Hannah. They are kissing, lying down in the hammock, Cornelius’s injured foot in the air. She begins to sing. Simon recognizes the tune. It’s No Grita. Hannah and Cornelius join in Spanish. Simon doesn’t know the words, so he hums loud with big gestures. Their voices are wonderful, and he wishes more than anything for them to find their quarry, to find their clit-headed bird. Two of them.

When they finish, he starts a song of his own.

“Come closer and seeSee into the treesFind the girlIf you canCome closer and seeSee into the darkJust follow your eyes….”

All four pick up on it.

“Just follow your eyes

I hear her voiceCalling my nameThe sound is deepIn the darkI hear her voiceAnd start to runInto the treesInto the trees”

Simon is pleased to see Sun-hee in a 1984 head-shake, her hair too wet to wave, but her neck thrown in pleasant angles. He kisses it and lets them go on.

“Suddenly I stop”

There is silence and Simon takes advantage by hooking his elbows under Sun-hee’s knees, dragging her back to him on the slippery tarp.

“But I know it's too lateI'm lost in a forestAll alone”

Sun-hee’s shirt is lifted to above her breasts, which jump perkily as she sings. The rain has started again and her skin is pocked with droplets, which run and dip and swoop and fall all over her curves. Her skin is unbearably beautiful. Simon takes the time to look at it by continuing the song.

“The girl was never thereIt's always the sameI'm running towards nothingAgain and again and again and again”

The “agains” fade into the sounds of lips on wet skin, the faint, somewhere smell of pussy and fucking. Simon picks Sun-hee up and she straddles his thighs. They are knelt against each other on the tarp, unable to keep their legs up with no friction. They squirm and clutch at each other, charley horses and uncomfortable pokes ignored. He gets impatient, stands up and lifts her, carries her to a tree and presses her into it. The tree shivers but does not bend. Her mouth returns to his. He pulls her plastic pants down. He pulls her bike shorts down. He circles her bare thighs with the backs of his hands, rubbing his erection into her pelvis bone at the hip.

“Touch me, Simon,” Sun-hee says.

He can’t. Just like the dream. He can’t.

Simon hears a rumble across tarp and feels two breasts on his back. A hand descends his forearms and takes his fingers. Hannah guides Simon’s fingers to the hot wetness at the crest of Sun-hee’s thighs. He guffaws, then goes to work.

“She likes it gentle,” Hannah says, and slows his fingers. He feels another hand on his cock. His head throws back. The wet dream was the first orgasm he’d had in a week, too squeamish to go into the insect-ridden darkness for a go at himself. He sees how stupid that was. How even a fucking journalist has got to come every once in a while.

The hot-wet of Sun-hee’s pussy is the butter for his knife. Hannah pulls lovingly at his cock. She drops his shorts, exposes him to the rain, the cool shock moisture on him. It lubricates slightly, but she must stop every once in a while to coat his cock in water again. Agony. Hannah comes around him, wedges herself between Sun-hee and Simon. She kisses Sun-hee for a while, the both of them enjoying each other’s taste, and she rubs Simon’s cock with her ass. She finally bends, drops down, her head at Sun-hee’s lower pelvis. Her ass in the air for Simon’s taking. Simon looks at Sun-hee, her knees bent apart, her head into the tree. She nods slightly. Simon pushes his cock down and enters Hannah.

He watches her face the entire time and Sun-hee watches his. They fuck each other through this living envelope, his cock become a tongue on her pussy. Simon pounds Hannah, his fingers in the bend of her pelvis, her thighs split on tiptoe. Sun-hee moans, watching Simon, and when she does, her oblong lips draped open, Simon gets closer. When Sun-hee comes, clutching the thin sides of the tree, Simon has to stop to watch. Her hands, dexterous as ever, bent in ecstasy. Simon slows and withdraws. Hannah stands on shaky knees and walks to her husband, whose cock pulses in his shorts. Simon moves up, kisses Sun-hee deeply and takes her thighs in his arms. He looks between her eyes, shocked that she’s there, and goes inside her. She yells, loud, louder than he’s ever made a woman yell. He figures it’s the rainforest. That she can yell out here. But then he notices. This is for the birds.

He yells out too, deep, manly, ripping yelps. Guttural and draining. He screams. She screams. The distraction pulls him up, takes his pleasure up one. They’re joined by Cornelius, who, a turning Sun-hee and Simon notice, is having his cock sucked fiercely in the swings of his hammock. Hannah is bent above him, moving him in and out her mouth with the back and forth, pushing and pulling his knees.

“Yeeeeeeeaaaaarppppp!” he yells. Simon laughs. Sun-hee comes up behind Hannah and spreads Hannah’s legs, a stable triangle over the mud in her boots. She bends over, takes Hannah’s ass in her hands, the rain beating down on both their assholes. Sun-hee’s bright pink pussy emerges in the dark fur pubes and Simon, with a yelp, enters her.

Simon, the unavoidable build of fuck in him, begins to compete with Cornelius in wailing. Sounds escape him that his vocal chords have never taken on. He yips, he yowls, he fucks the life out of Sun-hee.

Cornelius’s “Yeeearghs” turn into sincere growling. His body, thin shoulders to wrinkled abdomen move in a wave. He comes into his wife’s mouth in loud, sharp, natural screams. His fingers go to her scalp and pull. Hannah does not want to let go. In a turn of her head, Simon can see Cornelius’s come dribble from her open mouth. She buries her head in Cornelius’s thighs and begins to shriek. This is more what Simon had imagined, a crash of girl-screech, to be heard all over the island, the Columbian military be warned. He screeches back in harmony, ruckus everywhere, until his coming is unavoidable and as omnipresent as the rain. It lives from his neck to his toes, all parts of him in strain. He hits a high note, in his flight-taken zoom, and positively rattles the mud, coming into Sun-hee in the vibration of it. He pulls out of her and falls back on the tarp, his eyes still sucking in Sun-hee on Hannah, still filing the vision away as Hannah herself spasms and screams. Hannah’s fingers grip Cornelius’s hammock in full rip. He holds his foot out to avoid contact.

I close my eyes and imagine the Russet Wadbeaks with a change of heart, flapping their stubby, shiny black wings across the rainforest to each other, found, in the advanced age, what they saw when they first heard their shrieks across the green. Because what is there that can’t be imagined and made real by sex?

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #90? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

Monday, July 16, 2007

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #89? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

Saturday, July 14, 2007

The lovely and talented La Fille Mariée has forwarded a meme in which I must name and describe five female online writers (sexpots) that I like a whole darn lot. This is tough for me, because, as I've admitted before, I have yet to catch up on everyone because most of my computer time is spent trying to get posts out as quickly as I can and then, only then, if I'm lucky, read all of your wonderful stuff. I'm trying, though. I type really fast these days.

About Fille, she's just kind of folded me under her arm recently, and I'm really happy about it. Fille, just tell me how to make you happy, sweetpea.

It's no surprise that I'm putting our Dee up here. Dee reminds me so much of myself, it's a little spooky. But whereas Dee's been actually writing about things that she's actually doing, I'm just sitting in my apartment making shit up, based loosely on experiences previous to my marriage and a few asides here and there within the limits that my husband and I have agreed on. Dee lives for me, as many of you do, but hers reminds me of the life that stretches between my ears just before I come the most. And she's a freaking good writer too. Knocking you a kiss there, babes. Keep the good stuff comin'.

You know, I don't give a shit if everyone else in the world tags Z. I'm tagging her too. So there. You know why everyone's tagging her? Because she's an amazing writer. Look here:

That miasma of sex that can't be washed off and covered up, that floats on the air around the freshly-fucked, oozing out through the pores as though one body had absorbed the scent of the other.

I mean, come on! Look at that! She really puts herself out there, exposes not just what's happening to her body, but all those little tweaks of her mind. As Alex Kapranos says, words are poisoned darts of pleasure. And Z's got them by the balls. Ouch.

I only just found this site as Amy only just commented on one of my stories and I was all Ooooh! and ran over there. As if you don't know, Amy shares her site with Richard, her man. I'm fascinated, confused, and most of all, extremely freaking turned on reading their site. It's another case of living vicariously, as I'm sure my husband would love this setup and I don't think I could do it for more than an hour. I'm fascinated because I'm so turned on by it. It's brought out something in me that I was pretty sure didn't exist. The way she's so open, sharing every little detail, including inevitable mental conflicts, possible self-loathing or at least -mistrust issues being confronted right out there, with the husband. I couldn't do it. She can. Bless you, Amy, and thanks for the orgasm.

Something about her reserve gets me. She's so self conscious and careful about what she writes. Her words are well chosen, well weighted and her sentences are balanced and rhythmic in just the way she hopes they are. She's a writer to care about. And you do, right away. Like Amy, I've only just picked her up, and am going to find myself soon enough at two in the morning sunken into her archives like a pillow and unable to move.

I’m dealt a seven and a jack, suited, and call the ten dollar bet that Natalie is so shamelessly bluffing with. “I dunno what his problem is, really. He just gets so political when he’s mad at me,” she says. Samantha folds, but I don’t think she had anything anyway. Drew folds too. “You can see him like looking around the apartment for anything really viable to be mad at me about, because he knows his position is ridiculous, so he turns on the news and starts shouting about the war,” Natalie continues. Anna looks to me and folds, letting me take the fall if I’m wrong. “I don’t want to fuck him when he’s like that. It’s so that he’s the only one who gets to be angry.”

“We’re not allowed to be angry,” I finish for her, waiting for the flop.

“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” she says and stands up to lean across the table to deal. A seven, an ace and a five, the five and ace in diamonds, like both my cards. “We get pissed and we’re imagining things, being overdramatic or something, but they get pissed off and they’re being strong men, reacting to some real injustice, right? And we’re just supposed to cry until we feel better.”

“Because we can’t fix an imaginary problem,” Drew says, stirring her vodka-tonic with her pinkie. “So we just get all sad until we realize that there was never anything wrong in the first place.”

“It’s fucking frustrating!” Natalie says. She stares at the cards in front of her for a while and steels herself, throws in another ten dollars. “Why can’t I be a lesbian?”

“Really!” Drew says.

“Yeah, girls are nice!” Samantha says.

“But they don’t have dicks,” Anna says. “And I’m afraid I need dick.”

I put in ten dollars, look at Natalie and decide to raise her. She gets a crestfallen look in the side of her mouth.

“I don’t believe you,” Natalie says, genuinely shocked. Her cards begin to shake in her hands. She puts them down.

“Anna, have I fucked a girl?” I ask.

Anna is the authority on all things Isabel since she’s known me since I was ten.

“Yep. You were together for like a year, weren’t you?”

“Nine months.”

“What’s it like!” Samantha asks, slamming the front two legs of her chair down and leaning over the table. Natalie winces, but listens carefully.

“Softer, I guess. Everything is softer. The skin, the hair, the lips.” I catch Natalie looking at my lips. She’s got the remainder of the deck in hand, her long fingers over the top card, but she doesn’t pull it.

“And when you say fucked, you mean….” Sam asks.

I pull my hair behind my ears and put my cards down. “Strapon. Both of us. And of course we licked each other’s pussies and all that.”

“I heard that’s better with a girl,” Drew says, grinning.

I gave a non-committal side to side head motion. “It can be. At least she was more willing than half the guys I’ve been with.” Natalie’s got the card out and holds it face down in the center of the table. She’s breathing deeply, in shock no doubt, but doesn’t say anything.

The word “wet” hangs in the air for a few seconds before Natalie turns the river over. It’s a three of diamonds. Natalie, with a seven and a jack in her hand, has lost.

“I’m getting another drink,” she says.

I follow her into my kitchen, leaving the others to talk about me, which they’re entitled to now. She turns at the counter and gently presses her glass onto it. She jumps a little when she sees me behind her, then smiles apologetically.

“How could you tell I was bluffing?” she asks me.

“Sit up a little when you’re bluffing. It makes it look like you’ve got a great hand and you can’t wait to win. I’m sorry if the conversation got a little weird in there for you. Sam gets a little overexcited when she thinks she knows how to drink.”

“That’s all?” Natalie asks. “Just how I was sitting?”

“Anyway, you’re clearly uncomfortable about it, and I just want you to know that it’s not that big of a deal.”

“Do I sit up when I’ve got a good hand?”

“Yeah. Everyone does.”

She stares at my shoulder for a little while and I take her glass to the fridge. I fill it up with ice cubes and hand her the empty tray. She takes it to the sink and refills it, her breasts rearranging themselves as she turns the tray in the stream.

“And,” I continue, “you get an itch on the side of your face, here….” I swipe the pad of my forefinger on her upper cheekbone. “And you keep scratching it.” An explosion of laughter comes from the dining room. The girls have changed the subject. I hope. Natalie puts her glass down and goes into the bathroom. I’ve really freaked her out now. She will come out and tell me she’s lost enough money and go home forever. I pour myself another drink, watching her ice turn to water at the edges.

There’s another roar in the dining room, I head toward it, what I’m hoping is a sweet smile on my face. A hand pops out of the bathroom, grabs my arm and pulls me in.

Natalie stands before me in the orange light of the bathroom, her lips open and hopeful, her eyes wide, brown, full of flawless mascara, eyeliner mudding in the corners. It seems so sudden to me, something that some part of me had noticed and discarded before I could consider it, that Natalie was on the no-kiss list, and it seemed impossible to remove her from it. She saw my surprise, though not disgust, and leaned into me. An intake of air and there they are, girl lips, sticky and forceless, something I’d forgotten. I turn into her, pressing her into the sink, her breasts against mine, hers large and heavy, mine small and tight, making room for each other. She has one hand on the back of my arm and holds me there, just a suggestion to my elbow. I pull back anyhow, wiping my mouth in my palm.

“Is this what you want?” I ask her.

“Yes.”

Without returning to her mouth, my hand drops on her shoulder, falls slowly down, curves around her breast and curls up again. Her eyelids drop and flutter. I go down, under her shirt and come up again, under her bra, coming up to put her nipple between fore- and index fingers. Her mouth opens and her bottom lip twitches. I raise her shirt to her armpits and go around the back, undoing her bra quick in a pinch. I pull the bra up and stare at them for a moment. She wonders what I’m doing and opens her eyes, sees me and closes them. I flick her nipple with my tongue and blow on it. It stiffens and points at me. I do it again with the other. She shivers.

“Sam never asked if you’d done this before. Have you?”

“No.”

I take her nipple between my lips and suck it into submission. It sharpens, fights. “That feels good,’ she says, just under what wave form would penetrate the door.

And this is what I want. Dropping to my knees, lifting her long skirt to her hips is what I want. The triangle, entirely empty of cock, trimmed to the quick, the swollen pussy lips and the gift between them, also swollen, pink flesh shyly peeking out. My mouth waters thinking about it, this slung focus that I haven’t seen in years. My hands turn to fists, rolling her skirt in them, and I press her hips back over the sink, her abashed deference, rolling back kindly. I put her heels on my shoulders and dive in.

“Oh my God,” she says, her clit speaking for her now. “Oh my God.” My tongue swipes along her folds, dipping in when it can, flicking like she was soft serve. My body responds in amused tickles. It lights like a puddle of 151.

My fingers enter her, first one, then two, then three and turn up, looking for a g-spot, if there is one. I fuck her with them, this girl who only known men, and hasn’t really known sex either, hasn’t turned that brown part of her soul to bright green. I’m digging the vibration in her, the way she jolts forward the second my tongue makes contact with her clit and I pause so I can feel it again. Her right hand goes up to her breast and pinches the nipple gently as I did. Her mouth hangs open, careful, measured breaths in and out.

I pull my tongue in for a moment and watch her, my third-wheel thumb taking over for a while.

“Has anyone ever made you come before?” I ask her, because I’m sure of the answer.

“No.”

“Have you ever come before?”

She doesn’t answer, but grits her teeth for a moment. I kiss her knee.

I split her pussy lips between the forefinger and thumb of my other hand and start to lick her in earnest. Her thighs shake and occasionally batter my head, but I keep a steady pace, continuing to fuck her with my other hand. My tongue gets sore, but I don’t stop. She moans, louder and louder, no question in my mind that the other three girls are listening now, but I don’t stop. The low, square heels on her sandals dig into my shoulders, but I don’t stop.

“Isabel, please,” she whimpers, leaving no question as to who is servicing whom to the other three, “pleeeease.” Her heels press in hard suddenly and I have to press back against my toes to keep her from pushing me away. “Oh God, God, God, Guh!” and she falls completely apart, spasming all over the sink as I slowly, unrelentingly, lick it out of her. She comes for about a minute. It’s only when her hands push against the top of my head that I let up. I sit on my heels and look up at her darkly.

“Your face is all wet,” she whispers, laughing. She is gorgeous, I notice for the first time.

“Are you okay?” I ask, taking her fingers in mine.

“Hell yeah. You?”

“You think it’s just my face that’s wet?”

She is overwhelmed by a fit of embarrassed giggles. I stand up and kiss them out of her.

“We should go back out there,” she says in my ear. She stands up, adjusts her hair in the mirror and goes first. I wipe my face in a washcloth, put her panties in the cabinet under the sink, quell a smile and go back to the table. The three girls stare back and forth between the two of us.

About the Site

I've been writing smutty stories and realistic romance for years and this is where it's going to be now. Some of this won't be either. Some of this will be straight, some of it will not. I'll put in tags that will let you know which each one will be. If you don't like straight sex, don't read it. If you don't like gay sex, don't read that. If you don't like sex, go here.

I hope you enjoy it. Suggestions are welcome. Criticism is alright. Childishness will be met with similar.

I'm a normal person with problem obsessions that I enjoy to the fullest. I can type, spell, mix a real martini, kick your ass at Trivial Pursuit, click my heels, and charm people way prettier than me. On the other hand, I have no idea what a gallon looks like, cannot cook, forget names, live in guilt and smoke a lot. I drink too much. Do not ask me what 6x8 is because I need a calculator. Honest, I just don't know. I'm married to a beautiful man. I've never seen The Godfather uncut and I never will, so leave me alone, okay? I freak out. There's nothing better than a cool energy drink in the morning. Bush can suck my ass. That's it.
Stalkers start here:
In Your Face